anger

Anger looks like this: little flaps of skin on the end of a finger that teeth pull, making more little flaps of skin.
Anger looks like a forehead cringing.
A hole in the wall.
A back turned.
Anger is a silent nasty little thing. A thorn. made of metal.

My friend C has a kid who is getting teased. This is so complicated. As parents, even the most forthright among us, do not want to believe that our children could have done something to bring on the harsh words. And also, as parents, we recognize that our children are frail and imperfect beings. like we are. They are not always generous and kind. They are not unflaggingly appropriate, and their responses to disappointment or perceived injustice are not always temperate and productive. In other words, (newsflash!) our kids are human. But on this day, on this particularly dreadful occasion, hers is a target. So here is the uncomplicated bit, at least for me: no kid deserves to be a target of hate and cruelty in school.
But wait! Those are big words. HATE. CRUELTY. So I'll break them down. I think Steve Wessler has it right in The Respectful School. Kids can't learn when they are scared. I draw the line at fear. when a kid is afraid to go to school (or afraid to walk from class to class or afraid to get on the bus or sit down at a lunch table), we've enter the land of the cruel.

I am thinking of deleting this blog. It's a trial blog anyway - and starting a new one. Except, I won't stop and start a new one, I'll just start it here, in this hidden bunch of words. Hidden in plain view.

I began with anger. Here is anger. I get angry when kids cannot feel safe going to school. but I don't know whether it's sustainable. I mean, the anger. I mean, the blog.

I need to check out. Maybe this is why you do a trial blog. Because you can't step out. You have to stay in. This is when the oggling gets good, when you see someone wriggling at the end of a spear.

here I am. I am a mom looking for work in a big city. My children want to go back to the small town in the States we moved out of. They claim that they both want to go back. But then, tonight, my eldest daughter said, "yeah, that's why we've got to go soon, so I won't have as much to miss HERE."

in other words. shhh. don't tell. But she thinks it might keep getting better.

"I love watching you type.," my husband said. he's never said anything like that before. "It's so amazing watching you type..." maybe that's what he said. "It's so fluid," he said. "I can't even think that fast let alone write that fast."

Maybe I should have been a secretary. Maybe I should have been a blogger.

Maybe the blog is about this life, in Toronto and making my way as a writer and a talker. Maybe, ultimately, it's about me.

Maybe I can't tell where I live. Maybe I just talk about the Big City and the Little Town and E and A and J. Maybe I talk about the real issues, bullying and teasing and writing and meeting with people. And my name is Some Friend. Maybe I am the author of two childrens books on bullying. Maybe one of them is doing well. Maybe it would be okay to talk about what really happens in my daily life, and not think about who is going to read it.